


Why We Skant Have Nice Things

by Primal_Nexus



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Fluff, Julian Bashir and Elim Garak's Book Club, M/M, Skant, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, and garak's like but i LIKE YOU SO MUCH like this, are they together and does it matter?, julian has several WHY AM I LIKE THIS moments, nothing gets resolved, shhh it doesn't even matter it's SKANTS, skantfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26085052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Primal_Nexus/pseuds/Primal_Nexus
Summary: A station-wide malfunction of DS9’s environmental controls causes a reset to Terok Nor settings and a resurgence of the skant's popularity among senior staff.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 13
Kudos: 121





	Why We Skant Have Nice Things

**Author's Note:**

> auuuuughhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHH i couldn't help myself. didn't even so much as scan this for errors much less PFFFT get it beta'd. i just woke up feeling some kind of way. you know, like i've been awarded a structured settlement but NEED SKANTS NOW.

“O’Brien to Sisko.”

Ben replaced the lid to the simmering pot and turned from the cheerful, whispered noise that only suggested bubbling, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of one hand as he tapped his comm badge in acknowledgement with the other.

“Sisko here.”

“Sir, we’ve got a problem.” Sisko knew he wouldn’t have to prompt the Chief for a brief, lay description of the aforementioned problem, and he wasn’t disappointed. “We’ve been trying to integrate a new subroutine for the habitat ring, but there’s been a surge.”

“A surge,” Sisko mused. O’Brien hadn’t sounded particularly distressed, but then, he rarely did, and in fact could be accused of reporting life-threatening disasters with the same tone of slight annoyance by which he communicated any engineering mishap at all.

“We’ve reset again, sir. I’m sorry to say, it’s going to take some time to fix.”

_‘Some time’_ was not a unit of measurement that inspired confidence that such a fix could be implemented within the day, much less the hour. Ben turned back to his suddenly over-boiling pot with a hissed intake of breath, grabbing for a towel.

  
“Keep me informed, Chief. Have Odo post and send out announcements. Sisko out.”

Ben winced and clicked his tongue in disappointment as he moved automatically to save his bisque. He had barely resettled himself before the next interruption.

“Dax to Sisko.”

“Old Man, this had better be worth my lunch,” Ben grumped. He was already sweating profusely, more even than could have been explained by his proximity to open flame and the boiling waste he was quickly losing hope of salvaging.

“I was just about to ask you if you wouldn’t mind joining _me_ for lunch!” Jadzia laughed.

“Is there something wrong, Dax?” Ben had removed the offending pot from its heat source and was in the process of dumping it.

“Well, other than the fact that our environmental controls seem to be on the fritz again, no, not really.” 

Sisko had just been about to order a change of temperature for his own quarters, which were now hazy with moist heat. He sighed, knowing it to be a futile course of action. “The Replimat’s still holding at twenty-four degrees celsius, positively refreshing compared to most of the station at this point," Jadzia added temptingly.

“I’ll have to change.” Ben was already removing his apron.

“About that, I was thinking. Why not break out that dusty old command skant? Curzon always thought you wore it quite well!”

  
Sisko’s laughter came easily, from the depths of his belly, at the absurdity of such a suggestion. “Don’t laugh!” Dax admonished, even as she was trying to stifle a chuckle. “Tempers tend to flare when the temperature rises. It occurred to me that this might be the _perfect_ time to make a public fashion statement, you know, set an _example_ , so that everyone feels free to make themselves as comfortable as they can be in this _awful_ heat.”

Jadzia’s tone was light, even playful, but there was an undercurrent of tension that Ben detected; _Trills_ , he recalled, _do not like heat_.

* * *

“If you’re going to say something, you should work on swallowing that mouthful of your awful juice,” Julian advised, grinning sheepishly as he took his seat and the sinewy twin bronze marvels of his legs disappeared beneath the table. Garak blinked and for once did as the Doctor ordered, gulping reflexively. “I take it you don’t approve?”

“Do you seek my approval?” Garak asked carefully with what he hoped passed for the most innocent tilting of his head in curiosity.

“Well, you’re a _tailor_ , after all.” The emphasis on his occupational designation was a tad derisive, and Garak couldn’t decide which he presently found more fetching: the Doctor’s obvious pre-emptive defensiveness over his attire, or the flattering fit of the garment itself—although the Terran jewel tone particular to Starfleet medical service was not, in Garak’s opinion, doing Bashir’s complexion any favors. _Not as if it needs a single favor_ , he thought, before he could stop this self-indulgent train.

“The neckline doesn’t exactly please. But you already know how I feel about Starfleet uniforms.”

“ _Garak_.”

“My dear Doctor, if you’re uncomfortable publicly presenting yourself in such an ensemble, you might enlighten me as to why you chose to wear it to lunch.”

“Well, I’m not the only one!” Julian gestured around the Replimat. He was correct; there were many bodies representative of many species and several genders similarly attired. “It’s just that you’re staring at me as if I’ve committed some _terrible_ crime.”

“Is that so?” Garak replied with a smile that was, with effort, equal parts chastising and good-humored. “Tell me, Doctor. Do you believe that I am the only person staring at you?”

“Now that you mention it…” Julian sighed and rolled his eyes, following that pretty expression with a squint that just barely avoided Garak’s gaze. “I don’t know _why_ I feel so…”

“Exposed?” Garak offered. It was becoming more difficult to keep the playful lasciviousness that was in full flower contained within.

“I’m not exactly a pillar of modesty.”

“Certainly not!” Garak laughed, quickly losing his internal battle to the Doctor’s accidental charm.

“Oh, you know what I mean!” Bashir huffed, giving him a sharp glance before angling his eyes away again shyly. “Jadzia gave everyone the idea. She even got the Captain to wear one yesterday. I think even _Worf_ is wearing one today! Everyone except the Major seems to be happy enough to resort to something a little more breathable while the controls are so off from the norm.”

“I must say I’ve been _exceedingly_ comfortable for the past twenty-six hours, myself. I suppose I have your friend O’Brien to thank for this happy accident. The environmental controls seem most decidedly _on_ to me, for the first time in a _long_ time.” What exhilaration Garak had felt indeed at the sudden dimming of the Promenade lights and the immediate climb in temperature he could almost taste; there were thrillingly-cut spring outfits that had languished in his closet as he had cycled through the same dreary winter offerings of heavier fabric density year in and year out.

“I think I like your outfit better than mine,” Julian gave the compliment almost glumly, in a coincidence of timing that initially surprised Garak; had the Doctor read his mind? He dismissed the ridiculous idea immediately and gave a bland salesman’s smile in response.

“While your modesty is not in need of preservation, you are always welcome to peruse my wares. Although I’m afraid my travel section has been nearly depleted seemingly overnight!”

“I’m happy someone’s getting something good out of this.” Julian fanned his glistening face with an absent hand, and had never looked so deliciously, gorgeously self-conscious in his entire life, Garak was reasonably certain.

_If you only knew just how good, my dear_.

“We haven’t begun to discuss _A Confederacy of Dunces_ , and you haven’t touched your food.”

“It’s too hot to eat,” Julian complained, leaning back in his chair limply. Garak managed to keep his gaze leveled on the Doctor’s sweating face despite the fact that an equally tempting view was now literally opening up before him. “It’s too hot to argue about literature. It’s too hot to do _anything_.”

“One of the many reasons why you wouldn’t last a day on Prime, my dear. But I won’t fault you for it.”

“You didn’t like _A Confederacy of Dunces_ , anyway. I already know.”

“Nonsense!” Garak exclaimed. “I’ve quite enjoyed the picaresque trope. It provides such an amusing study of rascality that typically, thank goodness, stops well short of the criminal. Although, you’ll have to clarify for me, Doctor, is the satire directed toward the characterization of Mr. Reilly or of the organization of the society in which he flails about so comically?”

“Yes, that _would_ be the only important distinction for you, wouldn’t it?” Julian grumbled. 

“My _dear_ Doctor.” Garak offered simply in protest. He retained his polite, conversational tone, but injected a low note of steely sternness. He wouldn't put up with unnecessary rudeness, especially if it was a clumsy addition to what could very well turn out to be an otherwise stimulating conversation on their latest read human work.

“Ugh, I’m sorry…” Julian sighed and shook his head in apology, finally allowing his conciliatory gaze to be caught by Garak’s more raptly attentive one. “It’s just this heat. And this skant. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking you were going to make me spit my rokasa juice out in choking delight at the very sight of you.”

The Doctor’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open on a scandalized intake of breath, belying his intelligence. That he was radiantly beautiful and at the same time dumbfounded to the point of such an openly idiotic expression gave Garak a unique thrill of pleasure. “You must recall that I try to enact considerable self-control at all times, especially in public." Garak leaned in, raising his eye ridges and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "But that certainly doesn’t mean that you’ve failed to delight me.”

Doctor Bashir tittered, seeming to force his jaw back in order before offering one of his stunning affectionate grins, the corners of his eyes wrinkling so charmingly that Garak thought, yes, right there, just so on that face: _that_ was the only proper place for a good wrinkle.


End file.
